Vercetti
by Jonathan Crowley
Summary: In this dramatic retelling of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City, notorious mass murderer Tommy Vercetti is back on the streets and putting in work for the Forellis. However, when a drug deal in Vice City goes sour, Tommy is left to clean up the mess... or else.
1. Prologue

Author's Note: I am a perfectionist. I am a stickler for details. I am attempting to create a literary version of one of my favorite video game series of all time, and am trying to stay as true as reasonably possible to the game, without achieving the "reading a video game" effect you see with such adaptations as Halo: The Flood, instead opting for one which feels like its own separate work such as Starcraft: Liberty's Crusade.

That said, I am far from perfect. I am no professional writer, nor do I claim to be. That is why I humbly ask you, the reader, to bash my work. Pick it to pieces, find as much constructive criticism as you wish. One of the most important parts of the writing process, I believe, is outsider input, and here's where you the reader come in. If you find anything that directly contradicts the games in a way besides skipping a superfluous mission or what was obviously a creative decision on my part, please let me know in a review. If you want to see such and such in future chapters, please let me know. If you dislike an added subplot and would like to see it disappear, please tell me. If you just plain hate me and my writing style, and want me to go die a slow and painful death, I'm all ears. I can't guarantee I will heed every single comment and mold my version of Rockstar's epic accordingly, but I will take into consideration each one and you may see your suggestions in future revisions.

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Disclaimer: I do not own Grand Theft Auto. It, and all is characters and events, belong to Rockstar Games.

I also realize that in the games, the GTAIII version of Liberty City is in a completely different set of canon from the GTAIV version. I am mererly combining the two worlds in ways that will become very apparent by the time I reach the GTA3 adaptation, assuming I have the patience to write all the way up to it.

That said, sit back and enjoy my re-envisioning of Grand Theft Auto: Vice City!

* * *

It was no secret; Liberty City was the Criminal Capital of the World. Founded in 1798, Liberty City was divided into two sections: Old Liberty, which consisted of Broker, Dukes, Bohan and Algonquin; and New Liberty, which consisted of Portland, Staunton Island and Shoreside Vale.

Old or new, travel agencies consistently rated Liberty City "Least Likely Place to Succeed in America." It was the city with the highest rate of organized crime in the country, and second highest in urban gang violence, second only to Los Santos. Every square foot was gang turf, every police officer corrupt, and every business a legitimate front for organized crime. Marco's Bistro, an Italian eatery in the St. Mark's district of Portland, was no exception. The presence of the word "Saint" in the district's name was laughably ironic- the Mafioso equivalent of Martin Luther King Blvd. If anything, St. Mark's was more of a hellhole than the rest of the godforsaken borough. The district was contested turf of two of Liberty City's most feared names in crime: The Forellis and the Leones, two Italian families who disagreed very explosively.

In a back room of Marco's Bistro, Sonny Forelli, don of the Forelli family and owner of the building, let out a long, hearty laugh. "Vercetti? Shit!" he managed. "Didn't think they'd ever let him out!"

Tommy Vercetti… the name could not be spoken within fifty miles of Portland without a twinge of fear going down the spines of anyone in earshot. There wasn't much to say about Tommy except that he was not afraid to get his hands dirty. He was notorious for the hits he had carried out for the Forellis, especially one in particular… the incident for which he had been incarcerated for the past fifteen years… the Harwood Slaughter of 1971. Vercetti had been sent to kill some rival gang member or another (hell if Sonny could remember who exactly) but things turned ugly. Vercetti was ambushed, but had managed to survive and shoot down all his assailants, as well as one or two innocent bystanders. His deadly antics had earned him the title "The Harwood Butcher," a name which was beginning to rank in notoriety with the likes of Charles Manson and Jack the Ripper.

"He kept his head down. Helps people forget," came the reply of Michael "Fat Lips" Forelli, Sonny's cousin and the Bistro's most frequent customer.

Sonny brushed aside Mike's comment. "They won't forget for long. Won't forget when they see him walking down the streets of their neighborhoods. Won't forget when the Harwood Butcher walks into my doors. It will be bad. For. Business."

"But what can we do?" Mike asked with a shrug.

"I'll tell you what we'll do," retorted Sonny. "We'll treat him like an old friend and keep him out of town. We've been talking about expanding down south, right? Try Florida. Vice City's 24 karat gold these days. The Colombians, the Mexicans, even those Cuban refugees are getting a piece of action."

"But it's all drugs, Sonny," piped in Franco Forelli. "None of the families will touch that shit."

"Times are changing," growled Sonny, leaning back in his chair. "You expect us to just sit back, play with our dicks while our enemies reap the rewards? We best claim the coke capital of the east coast as our own. Besides, it's not us doing the dirty work. All we do is sit back and cut ourselves a nice, quiet slice."

Franco opened his mouth to argue, but seemed to think better of it. Sonny was notorious for his temper. Instead he decided on "Who's our contact down there?"

"Ken Rosenberg," sighed Mike with a roll of the eyes. "Schmuck of a lawyer. Guy's more of a basket case than his clients. How's he going to hold Vercetti's leash?"

"We don't need him to," said Sonny, unmoved. "We just fly Tommy in, give him a little cash to get started. Give it a few months, then pay him a little visit. See how he's doing."


	2. Chapter 1: The Deal

----  
Escobar International Airport, Vice City. August 11, 1986  
----

While normally a jittery man, the nature of his new business partner injected a new level of nervousness into Ken Rosenberg, Attorney at Law. Perched in the driver's seat of his white Admiral, Rosenberg checked himself in the mirror, and adjusted his glasses. If he was going to play host to a homicidal mobster, he would at least do it looking as little like the pushover he was as possible. Of course, he was used to being kicked around like a football, mob connections or not.

"T-Tommy Vercetti?" he stammered at a man who had just let the terminal. The man gave him a funny look and passed him by. He had been doing this to everyone for the past hour, ever since Flight 69 had arrived from Francis International. Cursing the airline industry, he reached into the glove compartment for some reading material when he heard a tap on the window. The man staring amusedly at him could only be Tommy Vercetti. He was younger than Rosenberg had expected, perhaps in his mid-30s to early-40s. He must have been very young when he slaughtered all those people in Harwood. Clashing violently with his square-jawed frame and tough demeanor, his outfit consisted of a pair of worn-out jeans and a bright blue tropical palm-tree pattern shirt. The effect was almost comical, but if anything it intimidated Rosenberg more.

"Relax," said Tommy. "I'm not going to shoot you. How the hell am I supposed to sneak a weapon past customs? And besides," he added with a grin, "There's one of you, not eleven." He held out his hand and shook Rosenberg's. "Tommy Vercetti, and this is Harry, and this is Lee," he said, gesturing to the two men behind him. "And you must be-"

"Oh, Ken Rosenberg! Pleased to meet you!" Privately Rosenberg was anything but pleased. Apart from being a psychotic killer, the guy was a smartass as well. He submitted to attempting to make friends, however; at least he knew now that Tommy wasn't going to murder him… yet. "I'll be driving you to the meet," he went on as the three men got in the car. "Now I've talked to the suppliers and they are _very_ keen on starting a business relationship, so hopefully we should be doing pretty well for ourselves, which is, y'know, good!"

Tommy cast an "oh-brother" look out his window. Rosenberg frowned. "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing," Tommy sighed. "I just get the feeling this is going to be a long day."

"Right," said Rosenberg, ignoring the obvious insult. "Okay, so they're brothers. Victor and Lance. Vic operates the business, Lance does the flying. We'll be meeting out by the docks, so it should be, oh, only about fifteen minutes or so."

Tommy reached over and switched on the radio. The last thing he wanted was to listen to a quarter hour of this stuttering loudmouth. He settled on the local rock station, V-Rock, which was playing the latest hit from…

"Love Fist!" shrieked Rosenberg excitedly, turning the volume down so they could chat some more. "You like them?"

"They're one of my favorites," Tommy reluctantly answered.

"They're in town, you know! Doing a concert tour! They're here the next month or so, so maybe if this deal goes off, we can snag tickets and see them live."

"Great," said Tommy half-heartedly. He'd take going back to prison over attending a concert with this twerp. For the rest of the ride Tommy continued to blow off Rosenberg's feeble attempts at conversation, trying to keep his mind on the music. Harry and Lee just talked among each other. The song ended, followed by the idiot DJ rambling about how he flunked out of school because he's hardcore (_"Who let this moron on the air?"_ thought Tommy) followed by a couple commercials for overpriced SUVs and the latest slasher flick. More music followed, and Tommy was beginning to doze off… he never could sleep on planes. He cranked the seat back and put his head back.

"All right, we're here!" sang out Rosenburg, interrupting a daydream Tommy was having about the sleep he could be getting at the five-star, Rosenberg-free hotel. "Okay, here's the deal. they want a nice exchange on open ground. No weapons, nothing fancy. And don't worry, these guys know better than to fuck with the mob."

Not after long, a helicopter hovered into view. It touched down nearby the car, and a burly black man hopped out, carrying two metal briefcases. He didn't seem very pleased with himself. Tommy could sympathize, but probably for different reasons. He preferred doing drug deals on a full night's sleep.

"That's Victor," explained Rosenberg unnecessarily. "Remember, straight exchange-"

"On open ground," Tommy finished, annoyance etched into every aspect of his voice. "I have more experience with this then you'll ever have."

Harry and Lee grabbed the briefcases full of cash and the three left the car. Victor had adopted a shit-eating, and very fake, grin. He obviously was not in the drug trade by choice. They at last met at the midpoint between helicopter and car. "Got it?" asked Tommy.

"One hundred percent pure grade-A Colombian, my friend!" Victor's voice was as full of the fake cheerfulness as his face. Tommy had no time for this.

"Let me see it."

Victor set down his briefcases, but did not open them. "The greens?"

"Tens and twenties. Used." Harry and Lee opened the cases and showed Victor.

"I think we have a deal, my friend," droned Victor in his insipid faux-cheeriness. "Ha ha ha-"

BANG!

Before he could finish his third forced "Ha," Victor crumbled to the ground, dead, a fresh hole in his temple. Without pause, several more shots rang out.

"Shit!" cried Tommy as he dove for cover. Harry and Lee weren't so lucky. They fell as the gunfire proceeded to convert them to Swiss cheese. Tommy raced for Rosenberg's car and dove through the open window. "Drive!!" he shrieked.

Rosenberg didn't need to be told. He stamped his foot on the accelerator, and made a sharp swerve out of the docks.

"Oh shit! Oh shit! Ohshitohshitohshit!" breathed Rosenberg.

"Yes," Tommy snapped, "Because you were the one being shot at."

"You're used to it!" Rosenberg protested. "I'm a lawyer, not a drug dealer! Bullets and me don't mix, you know!"

"They don't mix with anyone," said Tommy. "If either of us should be having a breakdown it's me, but you don't see me losing my goddamn mind."

"I shouldn't even be involved with this!" Rosenberg continued as if Tommy hadn't interrupted him. "Should have stayed where I was, whether it's in the gutter or not! Know why? Because when I poke my head out of the gutter, even for one freaking second, fate shovels shit in my face!"

Tommy's hand shot for the radio dial, and Judas Priest did what Tommy just couldn't manage to do: shut Ken Rosenberg up.

They passed through the southern bridge connecting the mainland with Vice Beach, the only part of Vice City most people knew or cared about. With such attractions as the North Point Mall, the Malibu Club, the Pole Position Strip Club, and, of course, the beach, it was one of the nation's most popular vacation spots. _If whoever it was hadn't fucked the deal,_ Tommy thought bitterly, _this might have been the start of my vacation._ Tommy had packed swimwear, a change of clothes, the essentials basically. But as for the rest he'd been counting on the deal to go without a hitch, followed by a nice week on the beach, getting a tan, haunting the nightclubs, and driving sports cars to celebrate the end of his 15-year stint in prison. Now his vacation would have to be cut short. Just his luck…

Rosenberg pulled the Admiral into the alley beside his office. He cut the engine off, abruptly ending DJ Lazlow's unintentionally self-effacing lecture on the importance of being hardcore.

"You coming up?" offered Rosenberg. "I need a drink."

"No, just get some sleep. I'll drop by your office tomorrow and we can start sorting this mess out."

"Okay," mumbled Rosenberg. "Well, if you want you can take my car. Just don't crash it or anything."

"I'll try to keep that in mind."

Rosenberg jumped out of the Admiral and made a beeline for his front door, ducking and zigzagging as though the streets were full of snipers hungry for his blood.

"Moron," Tommy finally voiced his opinion aloud to himself, before taking to the driver's seat. Finally he could devote some time to his thoughts…

----  
Private Back Room, Marco's Bistro, Liberty City  
----

"So how's our southern contact, Sonny?" Mike forced through a mouthful of alfredo.

"Let's just say we've already got a huge foothold and it's only day one." Sonny cut a slice of veal, chewed it slowly and thoughtfully before proceeding. "I tell ya, that lawyer might not be as dumb as he looks. Man's connected. He got us in touch with a pair of brothers who in turn have connections to the big coke baron. I'm kinda sketchy on the details, but they should be done by now. I'm expecting a call any minute."

As if on cue, Sonny's cellular phone went off. "Speaking of which, here we go!" Sonny said as he picked up the phone. "Tommy!" he greeted jovially. "It's been too long! ….I know, you're just overwhelmed with emotion. Fifteen years… seems like only yesterday….. Hey, doin' time for the family's no piece of cake, but the family look after its own, all right? Now tell me. Are you sittin' on a pile of white gold? ….You'd better be kiddin' me, Tommy! Tell me you still got the money! ….That was MY MONEY, Tommy! MY! MONEY! ….You'd better not be screwing me Tommy, because you know I'm not a man to be screwed with!"

Sonny grabbed the platter of ribs and heaved it directly at a waiter as he came to refill their drinks. It shattered over his arm as he held it up to protect his face. Without bothering to pick up the broken plate, the waiter fled the room.

----  
Ocean View Hotel, Vice City  
----

"Wait, Sonny," said Tommy into the cordless handset. "You have my personal assurance that I'm gonna get your money back. And the drugs. And I'm going to mail you the dicks of those responsible."

"I already know that," came the icy voice of Sonny Forelli on the other end of the phone. "If it was anyone else you'd be dead already. But since it's you – since we have history – I'm gonna let you handle this. I'll be in touch."

The line went dead. Tommy threw the handset across the room as hard as he could. The casing flew apart, leaving the circuitry exposed. It would be added to the hotel bill, but he didn't really care at the moment. How could Sonny have the nerve not to foresee the possibility that the deal would be an ambush, and worse, to blame _him_? This was bullshit on a level he couldn't even begin to fathom.

Latin jazz blared from the radio in the corner. Tommy walked over and switched it off. Now was not the time for music. Now was the time to think things over, and then get to sleep – a sleep which Tommy would not have minded not to wake up from.


	3. Chapter 2: The Colonel

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Ken Rosenberg's Office, The Next Morning  
----

"'Go get some sleep,' he says!" ranted Ken Rosenberg with a nervous laugh. "I have been sitting in this chair all night, with the lights off, drinking coffee. This… is a disaster! We are _so_ screwed, man!" Tommy's patience was stretched to the breaking point. Rosenberg had been going off on this tangent, pacing back and forth and going nowhere, ever since he set foot in the office. "These gorillas, listen to me, are gonna come down here and rip my head off! It's ridiculous! I did _not_ go to law school for this! Okay, now what the hell are we gonna do?"

"Sit down," Tommy growled through his teeth, "shut up, and relax." For a moment he savored those magical words, _shut up_, which he had been longing to throw at Rosenberg since first meeting him, but had held back for desire of not starting off on the wrong foot. Enough was enough though. "I'll tell you what we're going to do. Number one, you find out who took our cocaine. Number two, I kill them."

"That's a good idea! A great idea even!" mocked Rosenberg. "I can see you're the brains of this operation!"

"You said you were connected," said Tommy, "or was that all talk? Maybe you ran into those brothers on the bus?"

"Okay, let me think then!" Rosenberg stood up again and began to pace his overly-furnished office. After a few minutes, he clapped his hands. "I've got it!" he exclaimed. "There's this old retired colonel. Colonel Juan Garcia Cortez. He's the one who helped me set up this deal, well away from Vice City's established thugs."

"So you think he's the one who jumped us?" Tommy said savagely, pounding his fist into his free hand.

"No, he doesn't seem the type. I don't think he'd benefit from it really – the man has more money than he knows what to do with. He lives out in the bay on his expensive yacht where he eats lobster and caviar for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Bigshot, in other words. He'd have no reason to rob us."

"So," urged Tommy, "What about this Cortez makes him so special?"

"Exactly what I just said!" Rosenberg went on impatiently. "His connections! He's holding a party on his yacht and all of Vice City's big players are going to be there. I have an invite (of course I do!) but there's no way I'm going out there, sticking my head out the door-

"I told you, shut up!" snarled Tommy, in no mood for more of Rosenberg's paranoid ramblings. "I'll go myself."

----  
Colonel Cortez's Party, Later That Evening  
----

Tommy adjusted his suit. The thing was so damn uncomfortable, but Rosenberg had insisted he pay a visit to Rafael's, a local upscale clothing outlet, to make himself look (in his words) "respectable." Looking around the place, however, if there had been a dress code his old shirt would have passed it with flying colors. One man, who with a jolt Tommy recognized as the lead singer of Love Fist, Jezz Torrent, was half-naked, and the rest were dressed casually at best. _Leave it to Rosenberg to dress me up like a chump only to find that I'm the only one, _Tommy thought bitterly.

"Buenas noches!" called a deep voice to Tommy. Colonel Cortez strode over to Tommy and shook his hand firmly. "I understand you are here on behalf of Ken Rosenberg. I hope nothing has affected his health or mental well-being, Mr. err…"

"Vercetti," said Tommy. "And no, he's just got a touch of… agoraphobia."

"Necrophobia, more likely." The Colonel frowned. "He is a spineless man, Mr. Rosenberg. A dear friend of mine, yes, but spineless. But enough about him. How are you?"

"I want my merchandise back," said Tommy simply. The Colonel frowned even more deeply at this.

"It is an unfortunate set of circumstances for all involved. I assure you I have initiated my own lines of inquiry, but such a delicate matter will take time. Perhaps we will talk later, but for now you can do me a favor."

"And that is?" Tommy cocked an eyebrow.

"Enjoy the party, Mr. Vercetti! I have a few necessary obligations I must attend to, but first let me introduce you to my daughter. Mercedes!"

A young woman approached the two. She was quite pretty- a number of heads turned as she passed, and she was dressed with that effect clearly in mind. "What is it, Daddy?" asked Mercedes as she stopped by her father.

"Introduce Mr. Vercetti here to some of our more distinguished guests," said the Colonel. "I am afraid I must take my leave now. We will meet again, Thomas!"

"But I never told you my first name," Tommy wondered aloud.

"Yes, but Mr. Rosenberg did," said Cortez. "He may be spineless, but he is not entirely useless. Now, if you will excuse me, I must go." On that note, Mercedes took Tommy's arm and led him to mingle with the guests.

"Mercedes?" asked Tommy.

"You try living with it," snorted Mercedes with a roll of the eyes. "Anyway, over there is our congressman, Alex Shrub," she began, pointing at a man in an expensive suit and an even more expensive haircut, with his arm around a scantily-clad busty lady. "Alex, this is Tommy Vercetti!"

"Well, how do you do?" greeted Alex Shrub with a painfully firm handshake. "And may I introduce you to my lovely wife Laura?"

"A pleasure," said Tommy, shaking the lady's hand.

"Well, too bad," laughed Shrub, "she's in Alabama! This is Candy."

"Candy Suxxx," said Candy.

"That's good to know," said Tommy.

"No," whispered Mercedes. "Her name is Candy Suxxx."

"What is she, a porn star?"

"Brilliantly solved, babe," said Mercedes. "This way." She led him to another familiar face- BJ Smith, former tight end for the Vice City Mambas. "I hope this man needs no introduction."

"…and I blocked down on him and put him in a wheelchair!" BJ said, finishing what was apparently a very amusing story with a hearty laugh.

"That is good," chuckled an old lanky cowboy reminiscent of the sheriffs of the old west. "Donald, humor the good man," he muttered to his companion, who let out a tardy "ha." The cowboy tipped his hat to Tommy and Mercedes as they passed.

"…and that poolside amphibian is Jezz Torrent, lead singer of Love Fist…" continued Mercedes.

Jezz was in the midst of talking up a couple of the female party guests with a description of ping-pong in Thailand. "It does not involve a paddle, if ye know what I mean," he said in a heavy Scottish accent which caught Tommy off guard. He sounded nothing like his music.

"Hi there," said Tommy, approaching Jezz Torrent. "I'm a big fan of your work."

"Fuck off, ya wanker," replied Jezz. "Can't ye see I'm busy gettin' laid here?" At that, he returned to the ladies. He hadn't even bothered to look up.

"Impotent," whispered Mercedes as they moved on. They approached a chatty trio near the drink stand. Well, you could call it a chatty duo, as one of them was fast asleep, his contribution to the conversation being a loud snore.

"The sleeping sweat gland is Gonzales, daddy's right-hand gimp. The less lazy ones are Pastor Richards and pseudo-intellectual film director Steve Scott. Hey there!" Mercedes called out to the two. "This is a newcomer in town, Tommy Vercetti."

"Hang on a moment, miss," said Steve Scott. "Anyway, they're in the throes of passion with the nympho invaders when suddenly a giant shark jumps out and just bites their dicks off!" Pastor Richards shot a disgusted face. "I know, it's brilliant, and it all came from up here!"

"So what movie is this?" asked Tommy, making a private note to avoid seeing it.

"Bite," Steve declared proudly. "A little masterpiece that is sure to rock the adult entertainment industry. I'm nearly finished with the screenplay."

"I'm sorry, but the way I see it, porn should have no screenplay. They fuck, the end," said Tommy. "But your way's good too."

"I tell you," interjected Pastor Richards, "This kind of amoral degeneracy is exactly what the Pastor Richards Salvation Statue is trying to protect the righteous from."

"And what exactly is this statue of?" asked Tommy.

"Why, what a stupid question," laughed Pastor Richards. "My statue will be of the most powerful thing in the universe, our savior… me!" Pastor Richards raised his hands into the heavens, reveling in his own self-interpreted glory. "You may not realize it, but over in Russia they have nukes pointed right at Vice City, just waiting to blow us all to hell! But you can be saved. The salvation statue will blast off into space! And we will be free from all that is wrong in this world… liberals, degenerates, the Welsh, all of them!"

"Yep, that'll be something," sighed Tommy, starting to regret ever having met this man.

"Mercedes!"

Tommy turned to see a new man standing beside Cortez, abandoning his conversation with the colonel. He was short, stubby and balding, with a fat cigar hanging from the corner of his mouth. Mercedes didn't seem to appreciate his arrival one bit.

"Another time, Ricardo!" she called out to the man. "I was just taking my friend here back into town!" Ricardo looked disappointed, and turned to speak with Cortez again. "Let's get out of here," Mercedes hissed to Tommy. "Actually, take me to the Pole Position."

----  
Outside the Docks  
----

Tommy held the passenger door open for Mercedes before getting in himself. Mercedes took it upon herself to change the radio to Flash FM, a pop station, currently playing Billie Jean.

"Hey," said Tommy, annoyed.

"What, you don't like Michael Jackson?" Mercedes was flabbergasted. "Wake up and smell the 80s, babe."

"He's all right," said Tommy. "I just like my rock."

"No V-Rock while I'm here," said Mercedes. "I can't stand that Lazlow."

"How come?" inquired Tommy. "I mean, not that I blame you."

"He thinks he's such a bigshot," Mercedes snorted in disgust. "He came to one of my dad's parties, ran into me and let's just say he liked what he saw. Three piña coladas and one lawsuit later, he could no longer set foot within fifty feet of the pier."

"Speaking of party crashers," said Tommy, "who was the loudmouth?"

"Ricardo Diaz. He's Mr. Coke." Mercedes sighed. "He's worse than Lazlow, but he's too powerful to just sue away. He hasn't said or done anything, but I see the way he looks at me when he thinks I'm not looking." She looked out the window. Michael Jackson continued uninterrupted for a while, until she turned back to Tommy and asked, "Will you be working for my father?"

"Maybe."

"Do you mind me resting my hand in your lap?"

"….maybe."

Mercedes rested her head on Tommy's shoulder. "It's so difficult having a rich and powerful father."

They said nothing else for a while, until Tommy pulled up in the Pole Position club's parking lot.

"Okay, we're here," said Tommy, and Mercedes opened the passenger door. "So, what's a nice girl like you doing working at a strip club?"

Mercedes grinned. "Who says I work here?" She shut the door. "See you around, handsome!" she called back as she jogged to the front entrance.

"I'm sure you will," Tommy said to himself. He checked his watch. 11:34 PM. He'd pay Rosenberg a visit before going to bed.


	4. Chapter 3: The Chef

Ken Rosenberg's Office, approx. midnight

"Well, I hope you had the time of your life, because I was busy going out of my mind with worry here!" ranted Rosenberg.

"You could've gone yourself," said Tommy, adding a mental ", moron" to the end of his sentence.

"So what did you find out?" asked Rosenberg, changing the subject.

"That there are more criminals in this town than in prison," Tommy answered. "We need a new lead from the streets."

Rosenberg did a little quick thinking. "Hmm… there's this limey, real music industry slimeball."

"And what do we want with music?" prompted Tommy.

"Well, let's just say this guy has his nose so far up most of Vice City's ass that if anybody knows the location of 20 keys of coke it's this guy, okay?"

Tommy nodded, liking the sound of this. "Where can I find him?"

"Well," Rosenberg continued, "he's the kind of sleep-at-home-in-the-morning, haunt-the-clubs-at-night kind of guy. My money would be on you finding him in the Malibu."

"Malibu club, eh?" Tommy grinned. "I was going to check the place out anyway."

Malibu Club, Vice Point

Although he fancied himself a criminal mastermind, the only thing Kent Paul was a master of was rumors. Kent wasn't his proper name, but his hometown, his true first name being Paul and his true surname being as good your guess as his, after the drug-induced brain damage. And so he went by Kent Paul, although he also went by Paulo among his friends (whose numbers were very few since he had moved to Vice City.) Paul had substituted friendships for alcohol and frequent one-night stands. One of these was currently in its first stages.

"Where'd you pop up from? I've been looking for a bird like you for ages, mate." He was saying to a pretty young thing by the Malibu's very expensive bar. "Name's Kent Paul, mate. You may have heard of me. I manage a little band… oh, you may not have heard of them. They're called fuckin' LOVE FIST!"

In the back of his mind he heard a distant voice mention his name. Not that he really cared- it was a male voice, and therefore came with no chance of scoring.

"G'wan, I'll treat you. Backstage passes, anything. Whatever you want, I'll get it for you, girl. Don't you worry about a thing-" he was interrupted by a tap on the shoulder. "Oi, can I help you, mate?

"Get lost, honey," Tommy told the p.y.t. She retreated to the dance floor to the vocal protest of Paul.

"Oi, you stupid wanker, that was my tail you just scared off there-"

"You Kent Paul?" Tommy interrupted. "I'm a friend of Ken Rosenberg's."

"Rosenberg?" Paul mused. "Rosenberg…. Oh, that bonkers ambulance chaser! That guy could defend an innocent man all the way to death row." He laughed. Tommy didn't.

"Everybody's a comedian," Tommy breathed dangerously. "Now listen to me- I'm missing 20 keys and a whole lot of cash. What do you know?"

"Drugs, mate?" Paul turned away from Tommy to the bartender. "It's a mug's game. Oi, give us another drink, bruv!"

Instead of a drink, Paul got a nice little tumble to the alcohol-soaked floor. "Oi oi, what I was getting' to was, there's some chef-cum-trumpetshifter…."

"English, not Englandese," spat Tommy. "And none of this 'oi' crap."

"Fine," said Paul, resigned. "His name is Leo Teal, and he deals out of a hotel kitchen in Ocean Drive. You could go and check him out…?"

"What hotel?"

"Oi, I'm trying to remember!"

This new "oi" earned Paul a hefty kick in the ribs.

"The S&F Inn!" Kent choked through the pain.

"Thank you," Tommy said with a smirk. "Your help has been most invaluable. I'll see you around." And with another small kick, he left.

"That's right," coughed Paul. "Run away, you mug. I'll knock your spark out." He struggled to his feet, onto the bar stool, and swiveled back to face the bartender, who had been staring transfixed at the entire scuffle. "I thought I told you to get me a drink," Paul demanded. "And where's that slut?"

S&F Inn, Ocean Drive

The S and the F in the S&F Inn officially stood for Stanford & Fultz, the two founders of the hotel chain. However, customers referred to it almost unanimously as the Sleep & Fuck, a rather unfair observation as Stanford & Fultz Inns were also known for their great (and greatly overpriced) hotel restaurants, open 24/7. Tommy's jaw hung open as he examined the menu while awaiting the host's return. Fifteen dollars for a hamburger was reasonable compared to what they were demanding for the other entrees. Five dollars was what he'd expect to pay for an expensive milkshake, not for the soft drinks they served. It didn't matter how fancy a glass it was served in, a Sprunk was still glorified sugar water.

The host returned to the front. "I'm sorry sir," he apologized, "but Leo just left for the night. May I ask who's calling?"

"Would he still be out back?" inquired Tommy. "It's urgent."

"If you hurry you can still catch him."

Tommy spun around and exited the restaurant and the hotel. He did a thorough check of the surrounding area, eventually finding a man still in his chef's outfit in the back alley. "Are you Leo Teal?" called Tommy.

"Yeah," replied Leo. "Who wants to know?"

Tommy marched up to and grabbed him by the collar. "Twenty keys," he growled. "You'd better start talking."

"Hey, make me, you prick."

Tommy obliged by taking Leo's arm and twisting it. A sickening crack filled the alley. He then punched Leo hard in the face. His nose bled freely as he tumbled to the ground.

"Where's the coke?" repeated Tommy in several variations, bringing his foot down on Leo's stomach, then his legs, then his crotch… "Feel like standing up to me now?" He stomped Leo's face.

"Okay…" coughed Leo. "…okay….." and he fell silent.

Tommy waited a full thirty seconds before kicking Leo again. When he heard no grunt, he bent down and checked his pulse. Leo was dead. "Shit!" Tommy hissed to himself. He never would have accidentally killed someone in interrogation before he was in the joint.

"My thoughts exactly," came an unknown voice from behind him. Tommy whirled around on the spot. The voice came from a tall, skinny black man with a huge mustache, pristine white suit, and smooth demeanor. Tommy recognized him as the helicopter-piloting brother of Victor, Lance. "Way to go, tough guy," he said, gesturing mock congratulations to Tommy. "Beat him to a pulp. Smash his skull in. That'll get him REAL chatty!"

"You want some too?" Tommy snapped, losing his patience yet again.

Lance was unconcerned. "Chill," he said, "I want what you want. Your green… and my dead brother's white lady. Unfortunately, thanks to your Jack Howitzer interrogation techniques, you just silenced our lead.

"Accidents happen. Get lost."

Lance laughed. "Hey, no need to go all 'Lone Ranger' on my ass. The way I see it, we're two hombres in a strange town. We need to watch each other's back."

"My back's just fine," said Tommy.

At that, Lance pulled a handgun from a holster on his leg and fired a few shots past Tommy. He heard a thud, and turned around to see another chef mere feet away from Tommy with a knife in his oustretched hand.

Lance spun his gun, a revolver of an unknown make to Tommy, in his hand before returning it to the holster. "You sure about that?" he said with a grin. "Come on, my car is just this way."

"You forget," said Tommy with a twinge of annoyance, "that I have a car."

Lance pulled an all-is-revealed expression. "Ohhh yeah!" he cried out with his hands thrust to the heavens. "Your own car! Let me walk you to it at least."

As soon as they got back to the road, Tommy discovered the reason for Lance's sarcasm. Rosenberg's Admiral was gone, replaced with a plume of flame and charred metal.

"I just didn't realize you liked your wheels so smoldering and explodey," Lance mocked. "Now, if you'll please follow me to the Lancemobile."

The "Lancemobile" turned out to be a sleek, pure white sports car, an Infernus. Tommy gaped; the Infernus line was widely known to be the fastest (and most expensive) vehicle on the market. "Step in, bro." said Lance, holding the door open for Tommy. Before long, they were cruising down Vice City's streets.

"So," continued Lance as he skidded around a corner, "do you always do things bare-fisted, or are you not packing heat?"

"I'm unarmed, if that's what you mean," said Tommy. It was true; Sonny hadn't seen fit to arm him, and he had no money to his name to buy so much as a pocket knife. Lance frowned deeply at him.

"One thing you got to know about this town is that those without lead, end up dead." Tommy groaned at his rhyme. "hey, I'm trying to help you here!" Lance said indignantly. "If you want, you're perfectly welcome to get your ass killed, but if you have a brain you've got to make friends… the kind of friends who blow up their friends' assasins' cars."

Without warning, the Infernus screeched to a halt outside the Ocean View Hotel. "End of the line," said Lance. Tommy opened the door and stepped out. Lance leaned over to him. "I'll be watching you, Tommy."

And cackling like a maniac, Lance peeled out, reaching the speed of a cheetah on steroids within seconds and whizzing by a parked patrol car. They flashed their siren, but seemed to think better… trying to outrun a speeding Infernus was pointless. Tommy sighed, and took his leave into the hotel, intent on a good night's sleep.


	5. Chapter 4: The Realtor

----  
Colonel Cortez's Yacht, The Following Evening  
----

"I am ashamed to admit that one of the causes of our mutual problem appears to have been the loose tongue of a man I used to trust," said Cortez. "Are you sure you want no lobster?"

Tommy winced at the thought of eating one of those bug-eyed mucous-piles. "No. Thanks."

"Your loss, my friend," Cortez accepted as he tore off a claw. "As I was saying, I have been carrying Gonzales for years, but now his incompetence has reached new heights. Of course, he has been dealt with."

"Fired?" Tommy prompted, knowing the answer.

"Yes," replied Cortez. "With a chainsaw."

Tommy chuckled as he accepted a salmon dish in lieu of his refused lobster.

"Although, I must appear to mourn his passing and conduct business as usual," Cortez continued.

"This isn't getting me any closer to my money," said Tommy with his usual level of patience. Cortez put down his silverware and adopted a deep frown.

"Tommy you must understand," he implored. "You are not in Liberty anymore. Here we do things differently. I will continue with my enquiries, I assure you." He picked his cutlery back up and began cracking the shell. "Now, please, I insist. Have at least a bite of lobster. "

Tommy reluctantly obliged. "On second thought," he said as he swallowed, "I'll take the lobster." The chef grunted in annoyance as he returned to the kitchen.

----  
Ken Rosenberg's Office, After Dinner  
----

"Tommy!" called out Rosenberg as the man in question opened the door. "Any progress? No, wait. Tell me later. I have someone to introduce you to. I believe you met at the party?" He gestured toward the cowboy who had laughed at BJ Smith on the yacht.

"Not in person," said Tommy. "Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," growled the cowboy. "Name's Avery Carrington. I understand you boys are having money problems?"

Tommy shrugged. "You could say that."

"Avery has a proposition," said Rosenberg.

"Really…." mumbled Tommy. "Don't we have more important things on our mind?"

Ken threw up his hands in frustration. "Oh, that old crap! Look, you said you were on it, and by that I mean Juan Cortez was on it, so we've got things covered! Meanwhile, I'm stretched like a wire and I'd like to think that if I'm dead within the week, at least I didn't die poor. It doesn't-"

"Now just calm down, both of you!" barked Avery. "You help me, and I promise you any greaseballs giving you a hard time will be taking a loooong dirt nap."

"Fair enough," agreed Tommy. "But what do you want?"

----  
Spand Express Depot, The Following Morning  
----

Outrage was today's theme, it seemed, at the SpandEx depot. A strike for some damn violation of human rights or another had inconveniently put a halt to Tommy's little arsonistic plans. Avery Carrington, it turned out, was looking at some prime real estate. The only problem with this land happened to be the pesky owners of this small package delivery business. The plan was simple: Sneak onto the premises disguised as a worker, and blow the fuck out of every single truck. It was bulletproof except for the unprecedented strike. However, there were times for giving up, and that happened to fall under "never" when Tommy Vercetti was involved. He pushed his way through the crowd, picked a particularly sizeable rock from the gravelly road, and chucked it through the fence, right into the face of an unsuspecting security guard.

The effect was instantaneous. Rocks pelted the guards as every other striking employee took Tommy's lead. Eventually, as predicted, the gates flew open and the guards threw themselves into the rioting crowd brandishing nightsticks. One guard chose Tommy as his victim; a big mistake. Tommy deftly dodged the stick and grabbed the wrist, snapping it just as he had Leo's. The guard howled in pain, dropping his nightstick and grabbing a pistol out of his holster with his remaining hand. Tommy was ready; he snatched up the nightstick and gave the gun-hand a good *thwack* and oddly literally disarming the guard. Tommy then bent over and relieved the man of his firearm, discharging a round each into his legs.

The rioting continued unchecked. True to its nature, the Vice City news team arrived on the scene long before any police. The reporters gazed in awe at the bloodshed, and were quite annoyed indeed when the sound of police sirens cut short their award-winning speeches. The cops grinned as they poured out of the squad cars, drawing their weapons and dashing for the rioting crowd…

----

Tommy was a firm believer and practitioner in enjoying one's work. As such, he naturally whistled a tune as he strode across the parking lot, dragging heavy fuel barrels into place. Luckily for him, all the SpandEx delivery trucks were clustered into three main areas. After setting the last barrel into place, he picked up a small container of gasoline and began to create a small trail from one barreled truck cluster to another. The process complete and repeated, and a triangle formed, Tommy created one final trail, just long enough to afford him an adequate escape route. Holding his breath, he lit up a match and dropped it. He then turned heel and ran, sprinting to the gate. He had just reached it when-

BOOOOOOOOOOOM!!!!!

Explosions rippled the air behind Tommy, and the crowd scattered, police, rioters and all, the cameras taking special care not to miss a second of the action. Tommy nearly knocked over the camera in his hurry to evacuate the area. "Sorry," he said to the cameraman on live television, and he was off.

----  
Avery Carrington's Stretch Limo  
----

"Mighty fine job you did there," growled Avery as he sipped his scotch on the rocks. "Mighty fine indeed. And such sad news about Spand Express. Why, They'll go bankrupt. As a philanthropist such as myself, I would feel it my duty to buy the land off the owners so they can put food on their tables."

"Sounds good to me," said Tommy. "And will you keep your end of the deal?"

Avery chuckled. "Straight to business with you. I like that. Well, you have my personal assurance that as long as I draw breath, you will."

"At least as far as the mob are concerned."

"Son, you do me another favor soon and I'll not only give you protection from every little nasty bastard in the city, I'll make you my business partner."

"Looking forward to that. You got any of that scotch for me?"  
"Oh goodness, where are my manners?" Avery said as he went to mix Tommy another.

Tommy sat back in his seat. "I've got to say, I'm not sure the real estate business is for me."

"It is when you play by my rules," retorted Avery. "That's just a taste of what's to come. I've employed many fine cats to do what needs to be done with this market. Take that construction zone across the street for example. A couple months back, that was going to be an office building. Unfortunately, it conflicted with my business interests, namely that land, so I enlisted the help of a man who went by the name of Zero. He halted that construction so fast I swear I didn't have time to blink. Know how he did it?"

Tommy shrugged. "Magic?"

"Miniature models. Tiny little miniature helicopters that carried bombs into the office building. It was like something out of a cartoon- I'll never get over it! And now, in place of an office building, we're building another office building! But, y'know, it'll be mine.

On that note, Leo's phone rang. Tommy pushed the end button; he didn't feel much like informing yet another caller of his tragic demise at the time. But within a few seconds the phone rang again. Reluctantly, he answered "Hello?"

"Tommy!" The voice was all too familiar. Sonny Forelli had somehow discovered the number to Tommy's new phone.

----  
Marco's Bistro, Liberty City  
----

Sonny sat back in his seat, eagerly anticipating the bout of threatening he was about to unleash. Threatening was his favorite pastime.

"How's the tan?" he said in mock joviality.

"I don't have a tan," came the exasperated reply of a man awaiting the line he was setting up.

"Well, I don't have my money either, so I've got to thinking," said Sonny in a low hiss, "What are you doing there, Tommy?"

"I'm getting you the money, Sonny."

"I know you are." Sonny took a sip of wine. "I just couldn't help but worry. You see, I have this problem in my life with unreliable people. My management of the Forelli organization is superb, you ever notice that? Now as you know, I head the most powerful family in all of New Liberty. We have the place by the balls. And yet, I have a whole mountain of enemies threatening my peace of mind and hairline. I got Leones, Sindaccos, Vincenzos, Spaghettios, Fuckwits, hell. Even the Ancelottis over in Old Liberty want a piece of me. Do you know why?"

He waited for a reply. After nearly a minute, Tommy seemed to have broken down and played along with Sonny's game. "Why, Sonny?"

"Unreliable people, Tommy. I have a problem with unreliable people. If everyone I staffed were reliable, we'd control the entire city. But yet, only half. Half, Tommy. Because of unreliable people. Don't be an unreliable person, Tommy. Unreliable people don't tend to live long enough to clean up their own messes, if you get my meaning."

The line went silent for a long while, until: "Is that it?"

"My money," said Sonny. "I'll have it soon, correct?"

"…as soon as humanly possible."

"Well, problem solved!" Sonny lit up with positive sarcasm. "I do enjoy our conversations, Tommy. I'll keep in touch. Oh, and next time you kill my old business associates, don't be so arrogant to think I won't remember their numbers."

----  
Avery's Limo  
----

The line clicked dead, and Tommy suppressed the urge to throw the phone as he had at the hotel. Instead he excused himself and opened the door.

"Good to have your company," growled Avery. "And you don't need to worry about that greasy sonofabitch as long as you stay in my good books. See you 'round, Vercetti."


End file.
